Upon these shores Maglor wandered. Second son of Fëanor, partaker in the Oath, damned by the Curse; in his eyes, the Light of the Silmarils, in his chest, the fire of life. Further inland the camp of Noldor feasted and made merry. Maglor was not among them. It was not because he did not agree feasting was in order, or that he wished to abstain from company. More than most Maglor felt the absence of the Silmarils and the Light, and never had he felt closer to his kin than now.
No, Maglor wandered because he knew something was not right. The equilibrium of his world had changed entirely these last few months, and he had yet to gain his metaphorical feet after it all; yet he knew something was amiss. The ships, taken-up sails still rustling in the wind, seemed ominous, somehow out of place in their beauty. These shores were a place of darkness, and the iridescent Light emanating from their pearlesque sidings echoed their prior deeds in the Light. It was arcane. Intense.
Then his eyes caught movement on the deck of one of them—a flash of red, a body moving.
Confused, Maglor stepped forth; what would someone be doing on the Ships? Surely they would all be feasting? But then, Maglor was someone, and here he was.
Approaching the hulking bodies, he grabbed a line and deftly hoisted himself up to the deck, swinging a leg over to board.
Not a sign of life anywhere.
But Maglor knew he had seen something: someone. Feeling the slow rock of the sea beneath his feet, Maglor traversed the planks to the brig-door; it was opened a crack, and he slid through in silence.
The hull was dark, the only light coming from a swinging lantern hung from its place on a supporting beam. The Teleri had not fashioned these ships to transport armies across the Great Sea, nor had they anticipated the Sons of Fëanor needing bulk enough to carry warriors through storm, waves, and Valar’s wrath. The brig was fashioned in true Teleri style; room enough for those on board to withstand a gale for a time, but no more than that. When on the sea, they did not wish to be trammeled in a dank hull for very long, and had no need to; the space was small, with several cots along one wall, and a room for storage to the keel, and that was entirely enough. The single light illuminated almost all there was to see.
Including the figure Maglor had seen, now seated on the edge of a blanketed cot—red hair shining the colour of bonfire flame, well-built from hours of hunting and sword practice. An ebony cape betrayed the House to which he belonged; it was the same as that now hanging motionless from Maglor’s back.
The figure turned, and Maglor was startled to find tear streaks gleaming on his little brother’s cheeks, still fresh.
“Ai, Russa! What is wrong!” the harper cried, softly joining Amras on the cot. Why had he not noticed the youngest’s absence before? Of course this is what he had sensed; why had no one gone searching for him? “What are you doing here?”
To his intense astonishment, the twin fell into his arms, sobbing quietly. Fraternal instinct took over, and Maglor held the body close, soothing, murmuring, “Ai, Ambarto…What is wrong? What ails you, my Russa?”
“What does not?” came the muffled response.
Maglor pulled back slightly to look his little brother in the eye: he found pain, and grief unspeakable. “…Why do you not feast with us? What ails you?”
“Anger has stolen my appetite;” he straightened, wiping the tears away with his sleeve. “You heard the Curse as surely as I did. And now it is here, among us, like a sickness…”
Maglor’s brow furrowed.
“It is all well for you, I know,” Amras continued in response. “You have your wife, and your brothers and Father. You lost nothing in the Kinslaying, save your innocence, and even that was stolen the hour Melkor was released. You are infinitely rich, Canalaurë.”
“You have these as well—you may not be married, but my brothers are yours, as is Fëanor your father. You lost no more than I, or any of our brothers.”
“Nay…” Tears yet threatened his visage. “Nay, I have lost them all. I lost them in the Kinslaying, and even in the stealing of the ships.”
“Look at them!” Amras cried weakly, gesturing in the direction of the shore. “Like hounds of war unleashed! We are cursed! All of us! Surely even Eru himself cannot pardon the blood we spilled, the hearts we rent in our parting…Even now,” he tried to smile, as though what he said were entertaining, “Even now Fingolfin and his folk are floundering on the shores of Aman with no place to go. Do you think they will return to the Valar, after everything we have done? They are like moths to the flame, we all are.”
“The ships will be sent back,” Maglor assured. “Fingolfin’s folk will not be powerless for long. We need them to win the war, if nothing else. Father would not be so stupid as to forsake his allies.”
“He already has;” it was a lament, bringing fresh tears to his eyes. “Even Mother! He has no one to hold him back, and only us to fuel him…We are damned…”
As Amras began weeping once more, Maglor took him in his arms, assuaging the grief. He did not know if the words spoken had any truth, or if it were just the fanciful fear of one too young to see it any other way; for their own sakes, Maglor hoped it was not true. Softly he began to sing a lullaby Fëanor crafted for them when Maedhros was born; its melody echoed from the ivory planking, resounding somehow hollow in his ear.
Sleep now upon your bed,
Remember the night is fleeting;
A dream from which you may wake
Awaits you, little one,
Do not fear.
Feel the earth in your veins,
Forgefire through blood.
Hands of life hold you safe;
Sleep now, little one,
Do not fear.
Rest in my arms and do not regret
Your deeds at the end of day.
Tomorrow fashions them new light;
Dream now, little one
Do not fear.
Dream in my arms
And fear not the night:
The stars watch over you.
Little one, do not fear.
Little one, do not fear.
“Little one, do not fear…Little one…” Softly Maglor’s voice fell to silence, feeling a now slumbering Amras content in his arms. It was strange, but never had Maglor felt more the elder than in this moment, when all his brothers were grown into warriors, most of all this one in his hold now. Perhaps Amras was right; perhaps they really were different men now, different beings entirely. Their fëar had passed through flame and ice, and now they may look upon each other not as childhood companions, but rather fellow murderers and thieves.
“We shall reclaim them…” he murmured into his younger’s ear. “I swear to you, little Russa, we shall not rest until they are ours.”
Gently he lay the dormant form all the way on the cot, taking in only briefly the tainted lack of innocence on the man’s fair face; like flames engulfing him, Amras’ hair fell haphazardly across his face, and Maglor brushed it away.
“Sleep now, Ambarto.”
He departed in silence.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.